The Rabbit's Art
by Magical Shovel
Summary: Like a canvas not yet completed, he was missing something…   How did the rabbit function? Why did it resort to a habitual lifestyle? Surely, there was more to the rabbit as Sander Cohen would go on to explore.


**Disclaimer: **I own neither Jack nor Cohen- Or any other characters from Bioshock. They belong to 2K Games. :3

**A/N: **And now I've found a new fandom. 8D I hope you enjoy this as much as I had fun writing it.

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><p><strong>The audio diary sparks to life in Jack's hands. He witnesses the tape spin in an eternal circle. He stands still within the midst of plaster and dust. A statue of an artist, hunched over a desk is within his line of sight. Splicers lurk in the forlorn distance. The familiar, flamboyant voice of Sander Cohen crackles through the device. <strong>

"…"_The Wild Bunny", by Sander Cohen…"_

Out of all of the creatures in this world, Sander Cohen chose a rabbit. The rabbit was not his muse, but artistic inspiration. It was a creature that was forced to live a life of habitual behavior. It hopped and nibbled grass for the simplistic means of survival. Surely, there was something more to them?

"_I want to take the ears off, but I can't."_

In all honesty, he tried to explore the depths of the humble rabbit. His frustration proved that there was little to define them. In the creation of this poem, nights were spent throwing spirit bottles against the wall and table. Glass shattered as liquid coated the ground. It was only a matter of time before one of his disciples rushed by his side, resting their calm, calloused hands on his rigid shoulders.

"_I hop and when I hop, I never get off the ground."_

It was a shame that there were no rabbits in Rapture. Had that been the case, then Cohen would let them run rampant through Fort Frolic. However, out of every free rabbit, there would be a select handful that he would keep to himself. That chosen group would be used for the sake of artistic experimentation. Yes… Their ears would be tugged on, but they would not come off. How did the rabbit function? Innards would be prodded. An autopsy was mandatory.

"_It's my curse, my eternal curse."_

Cohen didn't want to admit it, but the plasmids and Eve hypos were having an effect on his body. His slender hands quivered like a delicate feather. His pupils dilated and contracted on a regular basis. It was a miracle that he didn't see or hear ghosts, unlike a surgeon whom he knew. The artist tilted his head to one side until it rested on his shoulder. He witnessed his form in the mirror, scowling back at him. Like a canvas not yet completed, he was missing something…

"_I want to take the ears off, but I can't."_

The mask taunted him. Yet, it remained a fascinating spectacle. Cohen was proud of his work and his multi-talent. His hands set to work. Wire framing bent to his bidding. Slender fingers seduced the art within his nimble grasp. The skeletal frame was completed, enabling the next phase to ensue. Black and gold was added to the rabbit mask. In his entire life, never had he seen such a suitable mockery.

"_It's my curse, it's my fucking curse!"_

The denizens of Rapture had been avoiding Fort Frolic as of late. Sander Cohen couldn't quite put his finger as to why, but it depressed him greatly. Rather, he knew why, but he did not want to admit the reason. Rapture's citizens had taken up a hobby that affected their health and depleted sanity. Excessive splicing had its side effects and the people were paying the price. If only they had entered his auditorium that eagerly awaited the masses. His music, his _work_, would revive the good-natured people of Rapture.

"_I want to take the ears off!"_

Cohen was tired of waiting. No longer was there a point. The occasional splicer came to his door, pleading to be in his next musical. They all wanted to become stars, but they did not have what it took. They simply lacked the talent and the driver. So, Cohen did the next best thing. He made them into art. Oh, how beautiful they locked as marble statues! His newest creations reminded him of the Roman Gods and Goddesses that were a proud display within their temples of devotion. He lovingly caressed the jaw line of one statue in particular. It was smooth to touch, yet inexplicably strong. The art seduced and deluded his hazel eyes.

"_Please! Take them off! Pleeeeeassseeeee!" _

A little moth knocked at Sander Cohen's doorstep. It stepped out of the bathyspere, fluttering through Fort Frolic. Cohen could barely contain his voluptuous glee. For this dignified moment, both Atlas and Andrew Ryan would be put on hold. Surely this moth was growing tired of hearing those men's voices drone on and on like a fly in his ear. It was time to change the station to something a bit more upbeat. This man was passing his tests. Soon, he would be Cohen's disciple and be granted mercy. Oh, how his little moth soared like a divine angel! Cohen wanted nothing more than to capture the moth and make him _beautiful._

**The audio died. The crackling dissipated. Sander Cohen's voice was no more. He would have the luxury of hearing it live over the radio. He tucked the audio diary away. It held the possibility of being useful in the future, though Jack had his doubts. He cocked his shotgun and approached the door. If Jack had learned anything, Cohen's muse was a fickle bitch.**


End file.
